


Interaction

by Trifoilum



Series: Texting Robert [7]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Crack Treated Seriously, Cryptid Hunter Robert Small, Cryptozoology, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Failed Deepthroating, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Prompt Fic, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-04-22 20:05:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14316162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trifoilum/pseuds/Trifoilum
Summary: Small snippets of life, unimportant in the grand scheme of things yet beloved all the same.(Collection of prompt-based short fics)





	1. Faulty Wiring

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :D
> 
> So I've been playing The Sims Mobile in my downtime using Robert and my Dadsona. It has been a while since my last Sims and I enjoyed this game a lot, microtransactions aside. 
> 
> One of the reason is the thin semblance of narrative between your two Sims. When two Sims built a relationship you'll have a say in choosing what kind of friendship/romance/rivalry this Sim is going to have with that Sim. And the narrative building also extends to the list of possible interactions your Sim can do-- something that, I realized pretty late, could work as a writing prompt.
> 
> And here I am!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW : References to a still-unnamed mental illness. See end note for more.  
> Prompt : 'Sitting hand in hand' + 'Say they make you feel lucky'
> 
> Starting with a hurt/comfort. This one is an abandoned old draft that somehow fits the prompt...kinda.
> 
> (And yes, I know I still have a Valentine fic to write, but I ended up rewriting _all of them_ so have mercy on me.)

It was a mistake to assume Robert's bad days were just like yours.

It was lazy. Part of a first impression, perhaps; if first impression happened after your neighbor stopped becoming a crush and started becoming  _a friend_  you have a crush for. 

With affection, though, comes adoration. Learning. Taking a leaf out of Robert's book and observe the hunter like he did to you. Listening to what was said and unsaid, what his body told. Then the data started to pile until they turned into an educated guess that was finally proven true once the distance between you and him were closed in a soft, tender kiss. From there, dismantling your hypothesis became as easy as breathing.

Robert Small doesn't crumble.  

His bad days came in the form of faulty wiring instead, like the neurons in his brain fired the wrong signals with the flip of a switch.

Sure, Robert tried to do what he always do. He took long walks around the woods and he played with Betsy. He whittled and he watched movies, yet none of those seemed to bring him any pleasure. In fact they seemed to lose its efficacy and became more annoying that way, taking all the effort with none of the rewards. It made perfect sense that irritability would come first in his case, followed by the intense frustration of someone whose world were suddenly turned upside down.

So when you were abruptly woken by Betsy's nonstop barking outside your bedroom and the space beside you was empty, you knew it was one such day.

So was Robert, judging from the foreboding finger he raised the moment you exited your house together with the dog.

" _Don't. Say. Anything,_ " an equally foreboding voice snarled before he took a long drag from his cigarette. Betsy dashed to his side, not even caring of the hazy veil of smoke swirling under the front lamp to bark at him, making her point to you as if her owner's misery didn't look so clear. It was hard not to say anything, given how Robert slumped into your patio chair, exhaling another puff of smoke like someone's last breath. His lips were thinned into a line, taut and restless as he leaned his head, searching for stability from the window pane behind. Despite the autumn chill, his body was damp with sweat and you were sure physical activity had no part to play there. You felt less 'I don't give a fuck' coming from him, more 'I  _can't_ give a fuck' instead.

From the outside, this looked like a wall, a warzone in a body of one. Decades-old defenses built to push people away.

Now it looked like an invisible anchor, tying him down to spare you from himself, to kept him from hurting anyone until equilibrium was found once again. You noted how on edge he was today, how agitated, and pang of guilt pierced deep within you.

Betsy looked at you with her big eyes. You smiled back, hoping to be reassuring. "Can I come closer?" you asked your lover.

"Nothing's happening," he grunted. "Go back to sleep."

"That's not--"

"I said nothing's happening!" Robert snapped, slamming his fist on the armrest and freezing the next second. Realization shattered on his face and in a flash, Betsy jumped back onto his lap. She started nuzzling his face, letting a long, sad whine when the older man hugged her tightly in response. 

The cigarette fell, joining at least the remains of  a dozen more, all crushed and scattered on the floor. Frigid silence filled the porch; one unrelated to the coldness of autumn. The sky was dark and while you couldn't the check the time, it was most likely past midnight given how quiet the cul-de-sac was.

Robert croaked a broken noise, somewhere in between a sob and a whimper, one you had let out yourself when the past came rushing back and you felt incredibly powerless to stop it. How pathetically easy it was to imagine a bottle of Jack in your lover's hand, empty and gripped tightly like a knife. An attempt to reset his brain where sleep had failed, alone and suffering while demons feasted on his mind. Everyone hurts in their own way and for their own reasons but everyone  _hurts_ and you felt it all the same, a deep-seating pain vibrating inside your bones with the ferocity of a car crash.

Only he was no longer alone and so were you.

You repeated your question, even-toned with barely a hint of nervousness. "Can I come closer?" 

Surprise jolted through Robert's body and he backed away, pushing the patio chair into your wall with a loud thud.  He looked...disgusted, like he had this script in his mind and you were speaking ridiculously out of line. And yet, at the same time, there was a hesitancy in his gesture, a certain desperation as he blinked and darted his eyes around, searching for something until they settled back on you, puzzled and pleading and defensive all at the same time.

In contrast with Robert's ragged breaths, your entire being was silent except your heart, drumming as it sung a song of courage through your veins.   
  
"I can't leave you alone like this," you said.

He clenched his jacket, practically clawing the leather.  "Maybe you should," grumbled Robert. His voice could be described as irate if it didn't sound so brittle. "We both know you can do much better than  _this_."

"Maybe I could, but there's nowhere else I want to be," you replied back, all restrain and sincerity.

When he gave you no answer, you folded your arms together and glanced towards the front door. It was cold and you weren't sure why.

"Of course, if you really want to be alone right now, I...can do that," you added before the other patio chair was suddenly dragged, groaning against the floor until it settled beside your lover.

" _No,_ " Robert shouted, and Betsy nuzzled him even wilder if that was even possible. "Don't go." 

A boot stomped on the recently fallen cigarette, harshly pressing left and right until there was no smoke and the stick turned almost flat. His face and two pats on the wooden seat sent a clear enough message, still you took one deliberate step after another in case he suddenly changed his mind. Robert narrowed his eye as you sat and carefully raised a hand, giving yet another chance for him to refuse until your hand rested above his.

He didn't.

Like always, Robert's hand was rough and callused, a wild and dry beast no lotion could ever tame. The coldness on your skin, however, was unusual. So was the restlessness. Midnight air had nothing against his body heat and yet the palm was damp and  _freezing_. Fingers were opening and closing around your hand, shaking as violently as he exhaled, trying not to press bitten nails on your defenseless skin. They wrapped around your fingers like a knot, like you would immediately escape if given a chance.

You didn't.

Instead you raised his hand, bringing it closer until you could softly kiss the knuckles. Once, twice, then thrice before you moved it closer to Betsy, letting her lick both of your hands as she sniffed them, panting like she was looking for something.

Robert chuckled. "Nah, girl, we ain't got any food here-"

And froze, disbelief etched on his face again. You were in a much better condiiton and thus you smiled for two. Fragile, but it turned resolute after he gave the slightest twitch of his lips in return.

The cul-de-sac still remained dark and empty. Only the hoot of an owl were echoing from somewhere, an almost metronome over the silence.

You knew the road to recovery is never smooth. Therapy and medications helped immensely but sometimes the brain may very well decide today was just the best time to fuck things up because of the pettiest of reasons. Maybe you took the medications one hour too late. Maybe you failed to say something to someone. Maybe it was the strange look other parents gave you when you "let" your daughter show her midriff that one time, as if midriffs were anything and Amanda's fashion decision were yours to make.

The road to recovery is never smooth, but it always moves forward.

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" you asked. 

"Just stay like this," said Robert, leaning until his entire body was practically slumping into you, his face buried into the crook of your neck. "This is nice."

So you did, taking one slow breath after another and feeling his body synchronizing with each passing moment. Occasionally your free hand wandered to pet the currently-still Betsy, and sometimes you leaned down and kissed Robert's hair. 

The older man opened and shut his mouth repeatedly, trying to find words and failing. You, on the other hand, had too much words and that, too, was equally damaging if handled carelessly. Advices would be unnecessary weights and reassurance were nothing short of a lie at this point. Those could wait.

Questions, though, were necessary. So you started there.

"Can I ask you a few questions?" 

This time his reply wasn't as biting as before. His words, however, stung. "No lectures. I can't--I can't. I don't need you reminding me what I do wrong." 

Your silence was heavy; a tentative agreement, given right now you could only see everything he did right. But Robert deserved safety and protection and it meant having his boundaries respected even if it was from you.

"Okay," you finally agreed, kissing his forehead. "Just questions."

The first one was easy enough. 

"Are you taking your meds, Robert?"  
  
"On time." He leaned into your touch, giving one side of your body a fragile warmth. "Still helped, but--"

With another exhale, the words trailed off. You waited a moment before asking another question.

"In the scale of one to ten, how painful are you feeling, and is this related to anything in particular?"

"Five, and I'm trying not to focus on anything. Maybe six at worst," said Robert, crunching his face. "It's just-- I should have had this fixed by now. Should have known. Should have been better by now.  _Fuck_!" By the end of it he was hissing sharply and Betsy looked at him again, not yet barking.

"Can you tell me if it gets worse?" you asked. Your demons always circled themselves around a specific issue, feeling all the ways something could go wrong and weighing everything down until the simplest task could drain all your energy for the day. Knowing what would happen helps the fixation from taking your mind.

At first Robert gave you no answers until he murmured so slowly into your shoulder. "...Help me make an appointment if it does." 

"I can do that," you said, and it really was not enough.

You really wanted to tell him how much he'd grown. Write a dissertation and spread it all over Maple Bay. Kiss him--  _wait._  This one, you could. And you did, short and chaste kisses on every part of him you could reach.

"We'll get through this together," you murmured a few moments later, parting reluctantly from Robert's lips with the utmost reverence you could muster. He squeezed your hand gently this time, and you returned the gesture.

"Always the optimist," scoffed Robert, a little grin on his face as he stole another kiss.  
  
"Just a realist, in my opinion," you said with a little shrug.

When Robert cocked his head, your eyes wandered down to see Betsy copying him. 

"We're hurting now, but progress is linear. Failures are lessons and setbacks will become stepping stones and nothing is ever wasted. You'll get through this because we've been through this."

This was your own defense mechanism; at best it was being ready for everything, at worst the mental equivalent of running too much program in your computer. Prepare for the worst. Prepare, in case something worse was about to follow and one day you had to bring yourself to another emergency room. Prepare, so you could make a difference when it mattered most. Prepare.

It took years to remember the full quote was  _'_ _I am prepared for the worst, but hope for the best.'_

When you looked at him again, Robert was looking at the cul-de-sac with a thoughtful look on his face. He opened his mouth, closed it. You almost let it slide before the words came out from his words loud and clear.

"But what if I can't?"

You took all the words you wanted to say, distilled it into faith, into trust, into hope, and spoke a little oath for you and him both.

"Then I'm gonna be there to help you."

And then Betsy whined. The timing was enough to make the two of you snort in an almost laughter. 

"See? There's Betsy, Mary, Amanda, and quite a few of other people in the cul-de-sac or otherwise, because we do care about you, Robert," you finished.  _He was no longer alone and so were you_ _._

Slowly, Robert turned until he was facing you, using his free hand to hold on yours, fingers intertwining. His face gave nothing. Blank-- or relieved, the way a good cry sometimes made you be. Underneath the stifling stench of tobacco and stress sweat, a familiar note of sweetness still lurked. The dark circles around his eyes were faint whispers compared to how bad they could be. And there were no signs of inebriation; nothing. He cradled both of your hands, lifting them near his face to kiss their back one by one, to let them feel his face. 

"Am I even worth it?" he asked. "I can't--believe that. I want to, but--"

"Every single chance, Robert," you said, leaning closer. "You're worth every single one of them. Not only because everyone deserves a second chance, but because you're working for it. And that's all I can ask; believe that you, too, deserve a second chance."  
  
The sky was getting a bit less black, and the hooting had stopped. Betsy jumped off Robert's lap and, after looking at the two of you, laid down and closed her eyes. The older man hesitated for a moment before leaning forward, brushing your lips with barely enough pressure to feel his chapped lips. Grinning, it was your turn to drag your chair until it was touching his on the armrest. Then you slumped your body into his chest, feeling the autumn wind drying the damp fabric, drifting together with the now-gentle sway of his chest. More silence passed and the sense of time started to blur. His hands loosened their grip and you knew you could let go if you wanted to. 

Neither of you did. 

"Can we stay until sunrise? 's gonna be a while before anyone wakes up," asked Robert. There was a sort of calm on his voice, a stability, an equilibrium. 

"Yeah, I'm pretty fine. We better hide before the sun rises though."

His lips curled slightly at the edge and your heart leaped into your throat. It was the brightest smile you had seen for the day. "'cause Cahn will wake up and he'll drag us for a jog like a true fitness monster,  _Bro_?"

Playfully, you nudged him on the shoulder. "I'm not the one saying it," you mumbled. "But yes, thank you,  _Bro_."

"You're welcome," he said, shuffling around until the two of you could snuggle each other. One arm finally let go of your hand only to wrap your neck in a soft headlock. "Sorry for being a dumpster fire," he finally sighed.

You raised an eyebrow. "I think you're mistaken, because nothing is burning so far." 

"Ha ha. So funny." Robert scowled, but it was more petulant than angry. 

You shrugged "It did its job. There's nothing to be sorry for after all."

"C'mon--" he paused. Pondered. Then opened his mouth again. "No.  _Thank you_. For being here. I'm so lucky to have you, y'know that?" 

"Thank you for letting me," you returned calmly. "I'm so glad you're here with me."

There was a pause, this time light and pleasant, before Robert leaned over and kissed you. 

"And I'm glad I can be here with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this is keeping with what I'm building in [Taking Pictures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637327/chapters/27689595) and [Trusting Someone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12497932/chapters/28453584); Robert has some kind of mental health disorder after Marilyn's death, for which he went to a therapist. He also took medications, as stated in [A Quiet Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12435057). It's probably closer to Major Depressive Disorder than Dysthymia.
> 
> (my) Dadsona has some kind of anxiety, most likely Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It had persisted before Alex's death but the accident basically made it worse. What I'm writing here is what (my) Dadsona knew about mental illnesses-- it is not a perfect explanation by all means.
> 
> Can't say I'm writing them perfectly, so if I'm doing something wrong, please kindly tell me because mental health is a topic I really want to be respectful about.
> 
> Also, ["I am prepared for the worst, but hope for the best"](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/762143-i-am-prepared-for-the-worst-but-hope-for-the) is a quote from Benjamin Disraeli.


	2. Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a previously unseen level of concentration—beyond hunger or lust, like oral sex was an enigma to solve, a challenge to be conquered. The intensity made him achingly hard but the hunter was also overcome with the urgent need to bypass the whole shit. There were so many ways to feel good, so much he could do without hurting this kneeling man.
> 
> He didn’t want to be dropped, thought Robert with a sickening lurch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Oral sex. In this case, the focus was on Robert.
> 
> A strange plot bunny gnawed me, telling me to write a story about stubbornness. 
> 
> This is essentially a prelude to A Weekend Together  
> Also has mentions of past Roseph..although not tagged because it wasn't exactly nice.

Robert always liked his cock.

Sure, by now he had learned how technique trumps over size in everything that matters. Mary had deemed his swagger ‘the not at all charming side of male chauvinism’ and her husband had called that exact same thing ‘tasteless’, but Robert honestly couldn’t give a fuck. Especially for the latter, given how ravenous the youth pastor liked to swallow the cock in question.

That pride was part of why the hunter had it inked when he was young. Cost him a ridiculous amount of money and the less said about the blinding pain, the better, but fuck if the result wasn’t worth it. Curving upwards at a respectable seven-point-eight on average—he measured it once—with a thicker base and a bell-shaped head, the cock was huge and girthy enough without being _too_ intimidating and the tattoo added an extra touch of danger that never failed to steal people’s breath upon first sight.

He even had a name for it like a true asshole, yet another thing he abandoned after Marilyn’s death because she used to speak its name like it was an unruly pet.

Point being, Robert always liked his cock without reserve until now, when his newest—and if the hunter had his way, his last—boyfriend hacked a loud and brutal cough after yet another failed attempt in deepthroating.

Abruptly getting up from his bed, the hunter watched his boyfriend as he croaked and spewed a trickle of spit and precum into a piece of tissue. Its box was knocked down on the floor, surrounded by dozens of crumpled proofs of today’s failure. This might had been the fifth try. Or the sixth.

Something unpleasant swelled inside Robert’s chest and he reached out only to be gently swatted away.

“I’m _fine_.” His boyfriend’s voice was terse and frustrated and—“Just an accident. I haven’t even reached halfway through.”

That something choked him off. Fear. The hunter knew what was happening and—

“Gag reflex can be reduced,” scoffed his boyfriend, looking like he would just prefer to get back to task, thank you very much. “Just need to get myself used to the size.”

Shit.

The younger man dived back in without warning and Robert had to grip his head still with both hands.

 _Shit_.

"Maybe it's not meant to be, buddy," rasped Robert, feeling like he was ripping his own chest apart. Those words used to be an internal cue during his so-called fuckboi era, a sign to end the sex as soon as possible. Get himself and the other person off before bailing out, because why bother with bad sex?

Never did he think of anyone else but himself during that time and right now he was still thinking only about himself, no thanks to fucking Joseph for dropping him like a hot potato the moment things started becoming _inconvenient_.

And he didn’t want to be an inconvenience.

Not now.

“You know we can always try something else,” he added, aiming to be charming and ending up at desperate. “Ain’t your knees hurting?”

“They are not,” said his boyfriend while patting the fluffy pillow under his knees. “But I can always move to the bed if you’re worried.”

“Not the point at all, dumbass.” Robert scowled, and received a look loaded with irritation in return. It was a previously unseen level of concentration—beyond hunger or lust, like oral sex was an enigma to solve, a challenge to be conquered. The intensity made him achingly hard but the hunter was also overcome with the urgent need to bypass the whole shit. There were so many ways to feel good, so much he could do without hurting this kneeling man.

He didn’t want to be dropped, thought Robert with a sickening lurch.

Head held still, his boyfriend threw the crumpled tissue aside and bit his lips, trying and failing to keep himself from frowning. “Don’t baby me,” he said with a hint of petulance. “I can take it.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to,” said Robert in a low, guttural sound. “Have I said anything, _anything_ about this porno-style kind of blowjobs?”

Seconds of headstrong resistance passed before he received his answer: a barely perceptible head shake against his grip.

“Right, so? Do you think I’m the kind of ass who demands that kind of shit?”

He was. He really was. And judging from his boyfriend’s pointed glare, it was too obvious.

“Things are different now, I won’t just—” Robert sighed _._ “There’s going to be a next time, don’t you worry none.”

“I know. But if I want it now, what’s wrong with that?” argued the younger man, shrugging.

“It’s been fuck knows how long,” growled Robert, voice frayed, tilting his boyfriend’s head up towards him. “Are we gonna try edging while we’re at it? Is that what you’re planning?”

No answer. The loaded kind of no answer and the hunter could feel his cock wilting as bile dripped into his guts.The younger man opened his mouth, closed it, and voiced his words with an innocent bewilderment like Robert hadn’t snapped just now. “Give me a color?”

It felt like the air was taken from his lungs. “ _What_?”

“Colors. You know; green, yellow, red—“

Robert bent forward and pressed his lips on the damp forehead like his life depended on it. “ _Green, motherfucker_! That’s not at all what I’m talking about here.”

“I know, but I need to make sure of it because I have to make an addendum on what I just said,” said the younger man like a fucking academic. “My persistence goes beyond a matter of _can_ ; I _want_ to take your dick, Robert Small.”

The hunter’s jaw dropped.

“I do want you to feel good, but you’ll be surprised at how far I’ll go to satisfy my craving.”

All of this felt like a dream; a fucking rollercoaster of a mood. Feverish.

“So I hope you’ll stop reading my gesture as anything but the obsession it actually is, and relax.” At the lack of response, his boyfriend shifted his weight and pushed himself free from Robert’s grasp. “Get it? Good, enough talking.”

“W-wait,” Robert managed to interrupt. “At least turn over and let me do something for you, dammit.”

He shouldn’t be the one being cared for at this point, shouldn’t take more than he already had.

But the offer only received three seconds of consideration before another shrug dismissed the idea. “Maybe later, but not now. It’ll be a distraction and then what’s going to happen? _Teeth_ are going to happen.”

For emphasis, the younger man pried Robert’s thighs open and nibbled the inside once again, restoring the hunter’s fading erection and making him gasp as a bonus.

“Just lie down on your bed, open your legs, and think of England,” teased his boyfriend. “We can talk about other things later.”

“C-color,” muttered Robert, still desperately seeking as much signs he could hold on to. “What’s your color.”

The question received a smile as an answer, tender and amused at the same time. “Green; emerald green, jade green,” murmured his boyfriend, peppering the inner thigh with trails of determined kisses towards his cock. Fingers unknowing of toil and hardship started exploring his cock for fuck knows how many times today, stroking his entire length and tracing waves of fading black coiling across and around the shaft. ”Lime. Chartreuse. The color of leaves in summertime. What you would call a beginner—which I promise I am not.”

“Fuck.” Robert shuddered and jerked forward, thrusting the wet and slippery cockhead towards the younger man’s cheek and trembling at the friction. “If this is a beginner’s work, then I’m dead. Done, finished, over.”

“You’re being melodramatic; I’m not a master or anything,” said the younger man so sincerely while taking an indulgent inhale. He nudged Robert’s cock upwards and licked the entire length slowly from the bottom. “It’s just love and a lewd amount of thirst.”

“Whatever,” groaned Robert. His boyfriend’s tongue took its time swirling all over the crown before closing his lips around the cockhead, surely tasting the salty mixture of sweat, spit, and precum. “Only got yourself to blame for any sore throat.”

“Uhmnh ihm,” mumbled his boyfriend back, sucking an easy inch before pulling back with a pop. “Worth it.”

Ten days would pass from now before his boyfriend could swallow the entirety of his length, and it took a weekend together for both of them to get comfortable with it, but all of that would happen later on.

Right now, Robert refrained from lying back on bed and simply watched the literally breathtaking sight of his boyfriend sinking into his cock bit by bit. Between praises that sounded more like incoherent moans, his gaze wandered towards the tattoo etched around the shaft, striking the hunter with the sudden urge to see if technology would make inking his cock less painful than the first time. So many people had balked at his cock with fear and equally many had clamored to worship it with hunger and attention, but so rare were the ones who gave equal reverence to the man behind the cock.

It made him want to renew his tattoo, showing its full glory for the one who loved it, loved _him_ so dearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is particularly done in a flash with minimal quality control, so concrit are absolutely welcomed!


	3. Partnership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For your question, Robert narrowed his eyes at you like you were a cheap extra in a bad horror movie and he was the grizzled veteran about to die in second act. You gulped.
> 
> "Cryptids.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We skip into summer, here!
> 
> Again, a plot bunny gnawed my mind. 
> 
> It started from the infamous Exhausted Women in Starbucks post in Tumblr, which was screenshotted here. I laughed for a bit before realizing that DDADDS actually has all of the ingredients…? It’s just a matter of mixing it.
> 
> So, have some crack that was taken way too seriously.

Today’s heat had already crossed the line between "wear a tanktop" and "fry a sunny side egg outside”. May just began but it already felt like Amanda was supposed to be here with a glass of sweetened ice tea.

God, you missed her.

Meanwhile, Robert barged inside the Coffee Spoon like the café was a secret drug cartel. "Did they come here?" asked—interrogated—your lover as he strode forward and slammed his hands on the counter. Both Mat and Pablo had a strange look on their face; not nervousness or fear, which was a relief, but more akin to a shared understanding, a previously unseen sense of camaraderie. A cheerful 8-bit music was doing an honorable, if futile job playing in the background, trying to mask the growing chill unrelated to the overworked air conditioner.

However, you suspected it was related to how both baristas nodded at Robert’s question.

"Yep," said Pablo.

"I’m afraid she did, Robert,” added Mat, scratching his dreads while trying his best not to look at the grimacing man in front of him. “Like, two hours ago.”

"Agh, _fuck_ ," groaned the older man, frustration clenched tight in both fists. "I _know_ they would come out in this kind of weather!"

"Who...came out?" you asked, finally approaching the counter. Looking around, the few customers sitting around the café had this bothered expression from all the commotions. The cakes inside the glass showcase were only half gone.

For your question, Robert narrowed his eyes at you like you were a cheap extra in a bad horror movie and he was the grizzled veteran about to die in second act. You gulped.

"Cryptids.”

"The Dover Ghost?” you gasped. Of course, that explained a lot of things, including why he had hurried here when he just woke up less than an hour ago.

"No," replied your lover with a bit of a smirk. "This ain’t your usual kind of cryptid, bud—she’s one of the very exclusive few lurking in urban areas."

"Exhausted Woman in Coffee Shops," whispered Mat solemnly. From the way his dark skin paled a bit, cryptids and the older musician clearly did not mix.

"That's right. Exhausted Woman in Coffee Shops.”

…An incredibly specific name, but whatever. They were definitely not something you could handle now, not when Amanda would be coming back in roughly fifteen days, nine hours, and forty five minutes from now (you definitely counted). “Should we call someone?”

“Naaaah. Let’s just keep it simple.” Robert nudged your shoulder—which shouldn’t be that reassuring—and stared expectantly at the two baristas standing in front of him. "Just the four of us. Right?”

You pointed a curious finger at him, Mat, Pablo, then back at yourself before tilting your head slightly aside. “Four?”

There was a subtle twitch, almost imperceptible. “Yeah, four. What about it?”

Questions were going past your head. _Why me_ , for one.

But before you could voice anything Robert folded his arms and made this brooding frown: a look of wanting without the courage to ask. The sight recalled memories of a younger Amanda, trying her best not to pout as she passed by an ice cream stand in a hot day just like today.

You couldn't help mirroring Robert's gesture, only topped with a little laugh. It was a such a familiar gaffe, mistaking maturity with repression. “Do I get a cup of iced coffee for the trouble?”

Robert’s frown froze, then melted into a little grin. It was not the usual _ha, gotcha good_ kind of grin; his handsome face looked hugely distracting with the well-suited excitement. “A’ight. Two cups of iced coffee for me and you, _partner_.”

He paused, as if trying to savor the feel of that word on his tongue. He liked it, judging from how he softly giggled. So were you, judging from how your heart stuttered a beat.

Mat also chuckled with a not insignificant amount of resignation. “Alright, two Americano Football, iced, with one extra security tape, coming right up.”

=====

According to the silent recording playing in your phone, this was what happened:

Roughly three hours before the present, just when most of the lunch crowd had left and Pablo was prepping himself for a break, a tall black woman sauntered inside the café with a scooter on tow. From her flowing grey caftan, the huge sunglasses, and the strings of colorful stones looping around her neck, it was easy to dismiss her as an early tourist. Except her hair was done in this tight, weather-defying afro that was at least several inches high.

With Pablo still manning the cashier machine, she made her order and engaged in some sort of tense conversation for three minutes and fourteen seconds before Mat joined the two. Something was said, and both baristas turned to each other, giving the all-familiar shared glance of _what the fuck is happening here_.

Robert nudged your leg. “Pause here." Right now, the two of you were seated next to each other on a loveseat at the corner of the café, a.k.a the hunter's usual spot. However, things were a lot different. "Alright, so recordings would still be very appreciated but again, your choice.” The older man scooted forward and leaned towards the green-haired man in front of you. “One word from you or Mat and this record goes boom.”

“Kinda hoping I’ll get interviewed for something else, you know,” said Pablo, trying to give a nonchalant shrug despite the bashful grin and the twinkle of excitement in his eyes.

“So why are you here, kid?”

“ _Inspiration."_

It was impossiible to ignore the dreamy tone in his voice.

Sliding his smartphone past two plastic cups of iced coffee, Robert gave him a quiet smile and laced his fingers together, looking very much like a dad he didn’t get to be with Val. “Think of it as practice, then. Before you got interviewed by _Billboard_ or _Rolling Stones_ or whatever it is you kids are reading these days. No stress necessary.”

He looked so calm and assuring and you might just fell in love a little bit further.

The young man, meanwhile, smiled and chuckled awkwardly. A graceful hand was moving from his hair to his arms before it settled on tapping on the wooden table. “Okay then, this might be interesting.”

“Good. So what happened here, Pablo?”

“She bought twenty four shots of espresso.”

What.

Pablo paid a short glance at your phone screen, nodding slowly as if enjoying a song. "Said it like a Starbucks: espresso in a Venti cup, topped with just a pump of vanilla syrup. She actually asked for twenty six and I don’t think our cups can fit that much, so I offered twenty five.”

“And then what?” urged Robert.

“She made this angry hiss,” murmured Mat from behind, putting a plastic cup of iced latte on the table. He was taking a long sip of a cream-colored frappe himself. "Almost like a snake."

“Not twenty five. _Never_ twenty five,” echoed Pablo, taking the cup.

The older barista sat beside his younger counterpart and stared at nothing. His feet were nervously tapping the floor. You could easily imagine a pedal there. “We’re not going to argue with her either way, but this is…different. She has this…presence, like staring too long at the midday sun.”

“Right?” whispered Pablo as he started fiddling with the straw. “It’s like listening to…no, not a gospel choir. Gregorian chants. So much awe, with just a touch of fear to make you tremble in your seat.”

“Funny, that’s honestly not what I’m thinking of doing back then."

“Well. Running outside screaming wasn’t an option.”

There was no response from Mat.

“Right?”

The tape was resumed.

As described, Mat and Pablo were silent for a few seconds before the older barista made this exaggerated nod. The payment went smoothly, with the mysterious woman giving what seemed to be several twenty dollar bills before waiting at the pick-up area, standing upright with both hands clasped on the wooden counter. While her face had this unreadable, Mona Lisa-like smile, there was nothing extraordinary the way you would expect from this genre; no jumpscares, no unexplainable movements. Just Mat, filling a large paper cup with one shot of espresso after another.

Robert had his serious face on, as he was prone to do whenever cryptids were the topic. “Wonder why she’s coming this early.”

While looking towards the counter and the bored part-timer currently stationed there, Mat also pursed his lips in thought. “Could have been the weather. Like, an early summer of sort, which today sorta is.”

“It’s possible this is some kind of growing immunity, just like drug-resistant bacterias.”

“Robert, I hate to break it but coffee is coffee,” countered Mat, eyes fixed at his own sneakers.

“Have some pride, Sella. Your coffee is far from dishwater.”

“Thank you, but on the chemical level it’s the truth.”

“Nobody knows the truth.”

Mat rolled his eyes with affection.

By this point all four of you were hunched together, probably looking very much like a bunch of gossiping schoolkids. While the conversation was going, you just smiled and remained focused on what happened on screen. There, Mat had finished filling the cup and handed it to Pablo, who put a cap on top and handed it towards the mysterious woman.

She gave the teen a curt nod and just _chugged the entire cup_ as if it was water before handing it back, expression unchanging. And then she left as quick as she came, dragging her scooter outside the frame before the recording stopped.

A creeping silence lingered and refused to leave, even after you replayed everything again.

Pablo finally flipped his green-colored locks back as they draped over his shoulders. “Maybe she’s travelling across America?” he mused in an eerily dreamy tone. On and off your screen, the young man was staring at what happened with admiration on their face, the kind of face you would make watching an apex predator in National Geographic.

“I think there’ll be some kind of news if that were true," Mat remarked.

“Oh, there are a few ways to avert that.” Robert sneered as he sipped his own coffee. “Depends on how bloody you want your cryptid to be.”

From the way the older musician laughed, a high-pitched giggle that sounded like a squeezed plastic doll, he definitely wanted the G-rated explanation. 

Robert, for his part, seemed to recognize what happened pretty fast. "I don’t—“ Robert stopped and sighed. When he spoke again, there was more weight in his voice. “Professional opinion here, I don’t think she’s looking for anything except caffeine. Don’t antagonize her for no reason and it’s gonna be okay.”

Reaching across the table, you gave your neighbor a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. It was understandable. Your reaction would be worse, especially if Amanda was involved.

Mat took a few seconds to compose himself, before giving you and Robert a grateful smile. “You’ve been silent for a while,” he said to you.

Robert poked your side for emphasis. You squirmed and made a noncommittal noise just for the sake of it.

“Everyone’s talking,” you said.

“So?” asked your lover.

“I…had nothing particularly meaningful to add?”

“Aw, c’mon. ‘s just a li’l neighborly talk, thought you were better at it than me.” The hunter let a low, throaty kind of noise as he sidled closer to you. “Should I ask your consent too? I know it’s not our usual kind, but I _really_ want your voice here, partner,” he whispered. His hand had settled warmly on the small of your back; charming and calculative. Very much an attempt of flirting.

Rationally knowing what happened and what to say were two different things, though. “I think we’ll need a more binding agreement if we’re talking about copyrights,” you blurted before freezing.

Oops.

Both baristas stared at each other.

You whimpered.

Robert groaned, the heavier mood wiped out as he wrestled you into a headlock. “Alright, alright, I’ll write a goddamn _contract_. That binding enough for you?” he grumbled without any bite.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” you whimpered.

The arm around you tightened. “Don’t make this even weirder.”

“So what should I say?”

“Your thoughts, for starters.”

You freed yourself from the lock and stared at the replayed video. “I don’t know,” you muttered. “Before devising any defenses, it’s probably good to know what we’re dealing with?”

“True."

“And I don’t know about that either. The three of you sounded so relaxed talking about this. It’s just like all of you had seen her before…“

Disc scratch.

“Wait.” You raised an intervening hand. “Have you _seen_ her before?”

The three men looked at each other as if, _oh yeah, we forgot you were technically a newcomer._

Robert smiled then shook his head. “Not the same one, or at least not with the same appearance. But I’ll say yes: the three of us have seen a strange woman ordering what came out to a deadly amount of caffeine before.”

“It was around Halloween before you moved in Maple Bay,” Pablo recanted, practically swooning. “A white woman, looking so haggard and exhausted, asking for thirteen shots of espresso and thirteen pumps of pumpkin spice syrups. No more, no less.”

“Every long-term barista I knew had an experience just like this.” Mat’s fingers were fiddling with each other, replacing the foot tapping which had ceased for a while. “They, in turn, know others. It’s like a rite of passage. Everything started in Starbucks, but these days….well.“

“Hmm…So there’s really no reasonable way to know how many cryptids we are dealing with here,” you finally said. _Or if she is a cryptid at all_ , you did not say.

The hunter nodded, one side of his lips quirking in unpleasantness. “Guess so. Caffeine addiction ain’t exactly uncommon.”

“Right…” mumbled Mat. “Not to mention the standards. How do we set the standards?”

“You just don’t," Robert snorted. “Too much of a mess. But now that you know the context, what d’ya think?”

You leaned back against the sofa and rested your head, staring at the ceiling above. The chirpy 8-bit tunes were still playing in repeat, and people were trickling in and out the café.

Something seemed off. None of what you seen seemed particularly strange, or _exhausted_ for that matter. In fact, applying broad assumption would make this look like—

“Witches.”

“ _What_?”

All three men were looking at you. Mat paled and Pablo was practically jittery with excitement, but your lover had aimed his eyes on you, observing; neither angry nor offended, but waiting to see if you were taking this seriously.

So you sat upright, pressing your fingers onto each other in a small triangle, and began explaining yourself.

“Here are the facts. First, they appear in person, not afraid of both human presence and security cameras. While they do look a bit off-kilter, and probably said a few disconcerting stuffs, they seem to possess an understanding of English alongside Starbucks terms.”

Robert folded his arms.

“They also possess a mind sound enough to make a conversation with other humans or even offering an alibi, in Pablo’s case. I’m not calling myself an expert on cryptozoology, but this seems like an incredibly smart cryptid if it is one.”

“There’s Mandurugo, which is a Filipino variant of vampires, but they definitely do not hunt for coffee, so yeah,” commented your lover.

“Humans, however, do. And I kept thinking of the numbers. Twenty four and twenty six, but never twenty five. Also, two times thirteen—which was also twenty six.”

“What about them?” asked Pablo, no doubt hooked by the theory.

“I’m thinking of numerology.” Your hands started to wave around. “Some spiritual practices like to use certain numbers due to its association with a particular meaning.”

The idea seemed to calm Mat down, and he fidgeted less. “So what are they about?”

“Twenty four is two times twelve. Twelve….is present everywhere. The clock and the months in our calendar, for instance. Eastern and Western Zodiacs. There’s also the Twelve Sons of Ishmael in the Old Testament and the number of Apostles in the New Testament.”

“In that case, why twenty six and not twenty five?” asked Pablo.

“Perhaps because twenty five is an…awkward number, within this way of seeing things? Mostly it’s just five times five or we’re talking about dividing. As for twenty six…two times thirteen….”

As much as you scrunched your forehead, you couldn’t remember why thirteen is _not_ an unlucky number. You could bring out Neil Young, or The Smashing Pumpkins, but it would do nothing aside from a quick chuckle from Mat and Pablo. Perhaps it was a ritual offering to the cult of Taylor Swift? Nah, too farfetched. Any existing reason would have been related to pre-Christianity faiths and tradition, but you couldn’t figure out what.

Before you could admit anything, however, Pablo’s gleeful voice cut your rambling. “The Thirteen Principles of Wiccan Belief.”

This time, it was his turn to receive three confused looks.

“In the past—or even nowadays—there were disagreements and differences between the many paths and traditions inside Wicca. Add the outside misinformation, and in 1973, an attempt was made to establish a common set of definitions to help dispelling the negative myths.” There was a single clap, soft yet spirited. “That’s the result.”

Gone were the younger man’s usual cool as Pablo abruptly stood and almost walked away. Almost, because he turned around to Mat.

“Can I take a short break, boss? There’s a lot of ideas I need to write down ASAP, and—“

“Better yet, kid, just take my phone and send yourself the recording.”

To your surprise, Robert was snickering when he said those words.

“Can I?”

“If you do it fast enough, does it matter if I mind or not?” With a press of a button, your lover finished the recording and smoothly pushed the phone further.

When you craned your head to get a glimpse of his face, his lips were quirked up in amusement.

No.

Pride.

It didn’t take long for him to notice your surely shocked gaze, and he bared his teeth before you could say anything. Meanwhile, you couldn’t shake off your disbelief. “Are you..okay with this, Robert?”

“I can see your logic, y’know. Not really expecting you to be the Fox Mulder in this whole partnership, of course, but I’m not complaining.”

Clichéd as it was, you released the breath you did not know you were holding and slumped onto his shoulder. You felt like laughing.

It took at least five seconds and a pointed cough to notice Mat’s presence, alone and tired and smiling warmly at the same time, with Pablo presumably walking away with Robert’s cellphone to the backroom.

“Are you alright, then, Mat?” you asked. “Do you want us to look into something to help you?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “If this is a Wiccan kind of ritual, then I can just serve them like others. It’s not like they’re more dangerous than any other people.”

Robert wanted to say something—most likely argue—but you quickly pressed your feet onto his boot.

“Of course, with that in mind, I think investigating further will only make this…kind of invasive?”

“Considering how creepy what we’re already doing right now, I am inclined to agree,” you added.

This time, your lover nodded slowly. “Well, at least Pablo gets some inspiration.”

A short back and forth happened between you and your neighbors. With a liveliness that wasn’t there when you first arrived here, Mat stood up and headed back to the counter. The very first thing he did there must have been changing the background music as an incredibly cheery J-Pop was suddenly blasting from the speaker.

Robert said nothing. Despite knowing you did the right thing, your gaze was kept steady at the floor. “Sorry for jeopardizing your hunt,” you said. 

There was a short nondescript noise. “’s fine. I’m almost driving Sella crazy anyway. Sides, ‘s not like I’m going to do anything to begin with.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really.”

His body vibrated against yours as he held back from laughing. “Hey, they’re not the Dover Ghost. They just wanna sip coffee and freak people out? Go ahead.”

Your expression failed to change.

“What, you really think I want to hang their head above our bed?” He grinned. “Who the hell do you think I am, Abraham Van Helsing?”

“It’s just—you have an aesthetic.”

“I’m feeling incredibly attacked here, just so you know.” He did not sound attacked at all.

Now that there was no one watching, the older man began dropping his body weight against yours, pushing the two of you together in the center of the loveseat. Recognition always came in a rush whenever it came to him: the lack of distance meant you were all too aware of the battered softness of his leather jacket and it just accentuated the firm muscles underneath.

Rough, prickling sensations were rubbing open skin, accompanied by welcomed warmth. Faint traces of Betsy slipped beneath the scent of roasted coffee and, hidden underneath them all, a musky sweetness that was all him.

“Now I'm hungry. What a day,” Robert remarked.

“We don’t actually do anything, I must say. All we’re doing is just watching videos and talking.”

“But we did it _together_. And it’s a promising kind of together.” With your position right now, the only gesture he could make was a little headbutt. “Here’s for a successful partnership, buddy.”

For as much as you had joined him in his walks, it felt really different to have it made official. Liquid gold began to fill your insides all over, warm and glowing. You reached his tattooed hand and held it gently.

After so much conversation, you were content to ignore your growling stomach and sit here in quiet, listening to songs after songs and watching people lived their slice of life in this cozy café. For a short piece of eternity, you did, letting thoughts ran its natural flow from a trickle, turning into a stream before joining the constant ebb and flow inside your mind.

At least more than three songs had played when a particular curiosity rose to the surface.

“Robert, with all the new information I’m getting, can I ask you a question?”

There was a bit of a pause before Robert glanced at your direction, eyes gleaming with interest. “Shoot.”

“Should we kill Bigfoot if we have the chance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I mean, animals have indeed been killed for science?”  
> “Rats, not cryptids. You don’t test stuffs on pandas.”  
> “That’s animal testing. It’s a relatively small part of how an animal can be harmed for science.”  
> “Yeah, and the rest is fucking poaching.”  
> “It’s not that black and white, Robert—”
> 
> Pablo: “Should we interrupt them?”  
> Mat: “…Just let them bicker as usual.”  
> =====  
>  Thirteen Principles of Wiccan Belief  
>  Why Neil Young?  
> Why Taylor Swift?  
> Why The Smashing Pumpkins?


End file.
